


Sam's Life

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-16
Updated: 2007-07-16
Packaged: 2018-09-03 07:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8703349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: A look at sam's life once they kill the demon....





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** This story is VERY AU!

You always thought that it was funny how fate can fuck up your life just when you thought you had complete control over it.

 

After the demon was killed and your hunting days were over, you spent a few more months with your father and your brother, trying to make Dean’s idea of a ‘family’ work.

 

But as much as you loved Dean, you just couldn’t stay. You were too different and wanted such different things from life. Dean was content to work odd jobs, live hand to mouth and spend his weekends getting drunk or playing pool in some seedy bar. You wanted to be a lawyer and live in the suburbs…it just wasn’t going to work.

 

When you made love, you managed to forget everything but the amazing pleasure. Dean was an incredible lover, and in bed with him, you could lie to yourself and tell yourself that you could make this all work out…but in the cold light of day; you knew that wasn’t going to happen.

 

Dean knew too. You would catch him looking at you out of the corner of his eye sometimes, and he looked so sad, so defeated–like he was tired of trying to make a square peg fit into a circle.

 

In the end, it was Dean, not you, who ended things, telling you to go back to Stanford, and handing you a plane ticket to California, smiling sadly and trying to look happy for you when you agreed all to readily.

 

The night before you left, Dean made love like he was saying more than goodbye for a few months. You had the feeling it was goodbye forever. He was tender and loving and slow, in a way that your sex had never been. He also wanted to do it with the lights out, which he never did…and halfway through your lovemaking you realised why–you saw the tears streaking his face in the moonlight through the window–and it nearly tore your heart out.

 

Lying in bed, naked, Dean behind you with one leg lifted sensuously over your hip while he kissed your shoulder gently, you asked him to come with you to California, knowing his reply, but needing to make the offer.

 

“I can’t leave dad,” he said softly, “He needs someone to…look after him, help him.”

 

“He just needs to stop drinking and get a job!” you blurted out bitterly, and winced when Dean’s body stiffened at your words, “I’m sorry,” you muttered after a moment’s silence, “But Dean…you deserve to have a life of your own.”

 

Dean kissed your shoulder and said nothing more.

 

###

You weren’t really all that surprised when Dean changed his cell phone number and seemed to drop off the face of the Earth, but you were still hurt. You heard, through dad–who had managed to sober up–that he was hunting again, and you had the strong feeling that he and Dean saw each other often, but your father always denied that he knew where Dean was, or that he had seen him. You knew he was lying–Dean didn’t want Sammy to find him, and John was playing along. 

 

After a while, you stopped asking about Dean when your father called. After an even longer while, you stopped thinking about him and worrying about him all the time. And after an even longer while still, you managed to forget what his body felt like against your own….

 

You met Leanne when you graduated from law school and got your first real job at a law firm in LA. She was a lawyer too, and you really hit it off. You dated for a year, moved in together and then got married. You eloped in Vegas, not wanting a big wedding because, really–who were you going to invite from your side?

 

Sex with Leanne was sweet and gentle and nothing like Dean and you tried to convince yourself you were happy. You got that big house in the suburbs and had two beautiful babies with Lee before you came home early one afternoon to find her in bed with one of her interns.

 

Thankfully, the divorce was not as ugly as it could have been, and you shared custody of John and Chelsea. You threw yourself into your work, and your children, having little time for anything or anyone else. 

 

###

Then one day, your dad called out of the blue, and tried to get you to call Dean. It was strange enough to hear from John–he rarely called–and you wondered why he was suddenly so intent on you calling Dean when he never seemed to care before.

 

“What’s this really about, dad?” you asked tiredly.

 

“I just think you should give him a call,” he said gruffly.

 

“Is that an order?” you replied acidly, and John fell silent on the other end, “Why now? After all this time, dad?”

 

“He’d like to hear from you, Sam.”

 

“Yeah? Well, the phone works both ways, dad! If he wanted to have a relationship with me, he could make an effort. I’m not the one who changed my cell number and dropped off the face of the Earth when I went back to school…”

 

You remember feeling amazed that you could still feel such anger, such bitterness after so long–you had begun to believe that you were over it, over Dean.

 

. But there was something in your father’s tone–something behind his words that he was NOT saying–that made you relent, “Fine. Give me his number…” you snapped.

 

John sighed in relief and gave it to you. You promised to call.

 

You stared at the number and then at your telephone, and decided that you were just not ready to talk to Dean–not yet. You would call him in a few days, when you felt stronger, less raw.

 

Two weeks passed, and you still had not worked up the courage to call your brother.

 

Then there was a knock on your door late one Sunday afternoon, and you expected it to be Leanne, picking up the kids from their weekend with you.

 

You threw open the door and stopped dead in your tracks when your eyes focused on the face of your visitor.

 

Dean.

 

“Oh my God…” you whispered, shocked to your very core.

 

Dean….

 

Dean looked the same, if a bit weather worn and tired. He was still wearing that damn leather jacket, as beaten to hell as it was. His eyes were still so green they reminded you of moss in a rainforest….

 

“I know its been…years,” Dean said, avoiding your gaze and shifting nervously from one foot to the other, “I just…I had no where else to go, and…”

 

“Come in,” you said automatically, and he did, smiling wanly.

 

There was a moment of awkwardness as you stood, facing one another, and then you pulled him against you in a bear hug, and wondered if he could feel how much you are trembling, “Dean.” you murmured against his ear softly. He leaned into your embrace.

 

John and Chelsea came running down the stairs like a demon was chasing them, “Was that mom?” Chelsea was calling out before she stopped, suddenly, staring up at her father embracing a stranger. John was beside her, staring in silence as well.

 

You pulled out of the embrace abruptly, and looked at your children, smiling widely, “John…Chelsea…this is Dean, my brother–your uncle.”

 

The two children stared up in wide-eyed wonder–they had heard so many stories about their Uncle Dean. He was a legend in the family…

 

Dean smiled down at them gently, then turned slightly to Sam, “Jeez, Sammy…they’re just beautiful.” He whispered softly.

 

You felt a lump in your throat and found that you could say nothing, so you simply nodded and smiled at him.

 

Seconds later, the kids were running into Dean’s arms, hugging him tightly, arms wrapped around their uncle’s neck, laughing and shouting over one another.

 

“Uncle Dean! Is it true you’ve been to Peru hunting demons?” John asked excitedly.

 

“Is it true you once slaved a dragon?” Chelsea shrieked.

 

And then Dean is laughing and kissing them and you just stood there, amazed at how easily Dean can make himself at home anywhere–just like always.

 

 

Several hours later, the children were gone and Dean was sitting on your couch in the living room, just staring at you with that look in his eye.

 

“Dean?” you asked, moving closer to him, your lips mere centimetres apart, “What do you want?”

 

Dean groaned softly and brushed his perfect lips against yours lightly, “You. Inside me…”

 

“Oh God,” you moaned and felt yourself harden.

 

And then, as if you had never been apart, Dean was kissing you and you were opening your mouth for his probing tongue and the kiss was deep and tender and slow, and you were moaning into his open mouth, growing hard in his arms.

 

After a few minutes of heated making out, you both broke for a breath. Your cheeks were flushed a deep pink, and Dean looked dazed, “I’m sorry…I’ve just…been dreaming about doing that for the last two hundred miles…” he said almost shyly, looking away.

 

“It’s not a problem,” you whispered, your lips a hairs breath from his. You pressed your erection to his groin, and he moaned, “Not a problem at all.”

 

You pushed him down and straddled his waist, cupping his face with your hands and leaning down to capture his mouth with yours.

 

You necked like teenagers in the backseat of a car. Dean sprawled out beneath you on the couch, your whole body draped over his. You were fully clothed, but Dean’s t-shirt was pulled up to reveal his tanned, toned chest, and your shirt was unbuttoned, revealing your chest and abs for Dean to caress and admire with his hands and mouth.

 

He smelled and tasted exactly the way you remember him, and you were so very desperate for it…never realised just how desperate you were for him until that moment. All those years, and you’d never been with another man, never even wanted to be…but Dean, well, he was different…

 

“Oh, Dean…it’s been so long…” you gasped between kisses placed along his neck, his jaw line, his temple, “Missed you so much…”

 

Dean said nothing, just laid beneath you, letting you have him, touch him, mark him. His hands ran through your hair and he watched as you sucked his nipples, kissed his belly, moved lower…

 

Even after all these years apart, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to you when you took his penis into your mouth and began to suckle it sweetly.

 

Dean groaned low in his throat and arched up slightly, hands in your hair, eyes blazing brightly with need and desire, “Fuck, Sam!”

 

He came quickly, after only a few moments, and you wondered, vaguely, how long it has been for him. You swallowed his seed hungrily, moaning as he spilled down your willing throat, and then licked him clean, before bringing your mouth to his so he could taste himself on your tongue.

 

“Oh Sammy…” he moaned, forehead pressed to yours, eyes closed. 

 

Then you pulled away and grasped your aching sex, performing for him, “Oh, fuck, yeah, Sammy…that’s it…jerk off for me…show me…”

 

You braced yourself over his smaller frame while he jacked you off, and as you moaned and thrust forward, into his hand, you wondered if you had ever been this open, this desperate, this needy in bed with anyone else…. probably not. With Dean, you could always let go completely; show who you really were–not the Stanford lawyer, but the scared little boy who still had nightmares and hated fire with a passion.

 

“Come on me, Sammy…come all over me…” Dean urged dirtily.

 

You cried out, almost as if you are in pain, as you came, sobbing his name like a prayer, and spilling heavily over his stomach. The pleasure was almost unbearable and you felt tears streaming down your face and made no effort to wipe them away.

 

Afterwards, you ran your fingers through your semen and fed it to Dean, like you used too when you were lovers a million years ago, and revelled in the feeling of his velvet tongue against your fingers, licking you clean. Then you curled yourself against him as he held you.

 

There were no words for a long time, as you simply basked in the pleasure and the love. The last years seeming like nothing more than a bad dream now.

 

“Why now?” you asked after an eternity of silence, “Why are you here now, after so long?”

 

Dean ignored the question, as you knew he would. He shifted uncomfortably and changed the subject.

 

“I tried to reach dad for about two weeks now…” he continued.

 

You sat up and pull yourself out of his embrace reluctantly.

 

“Yeah, he’s out of contact till Monday. He called me to let me know. Some werewolf lair or some damn thing…” you scratched the back of your neck absently as Dean nodded his understanding, “He told me to tell you he’d call you next Tuesday–he had trouble getting through on your cell.”

 

The sun was setting behind the mountains, painting the sky red and the reflection looks brilliant against Dean’s tanned skin.

 

“You hungry? I can order something…” you offered and Dean smiled like the cat that just ate the cream.

 

“You know me, Sammy,” he said, “Never turn down a meal.”

 

It was late–very. You were sitting at your kitchen table, drinking beer out of cans, eating pizza that has long since gone cold, and Dean was smoking and you talked about your kids and work and Dean’s adventures, and how things fell apart with Leanne, and everything… and nothing. There was a tension that neither of you wants to acknowledge, but neither of you can ignore, either.

 

“Dean,” you whispered at last, huskily, and he looked at you with eyes that spoke of love and hope and something you cannot define…an indeterminate sadness, perhaps?

 

You held out your hand to him silently, a hopeful expression on your face, “Make love to me?”

 

Dean looked at you uncertainly, and makes no move, “Are you sure, Sammy?” he asks quietly.

 

You nodded slowly, feeling your heart swell, “I never should have let you go,” you told him honestly, “I never stopped loving you, Dean.”

 

Dean’s eyes fluttered closed at your words, “Oh, Sammy…” he sounded… regretful and so very sad, and you cocked your head at him, suddenly worried, “Oh God…Sam…”

 

“What’s wrong?” you asked, sensing something in his voice, his demeanour, and his eyes .something there below the surface that he was not yet willing to share with you.

 

He caught himself and smiled up at you, “Not now, Sammy…” he whispered, and took your hand.

 

You let it go–for the moment. You wanted him so much, but you knew there was something wrong…could feel it, even as you kissed deeply, searching his mouth with your tongue wetly.

 

You led him to your bedroom and closed the door, expecting it to be hard and fast and torrid…but it was, in fact, the very antithesis of that.

 

Dean approached you slowly, cautiously, and you trembled–actually trembled with anticipation–as he leaned in for a kiss, and began to caress your chest as he unbuttoned your shirt slowly. His lips were so soft, and pliant under yours. You groaned and leaned into him.

 

You moaned into his mouth, desperate for more, but also enjoying the slow torture.

 

“Oh, Dean…” you groaned, “There’s never been anyone like you. No one else ever made me feel like this….” You admitted, the words tumbling out of your mouth breathlessly.

 

Then you were nude and writhing up against him on the bed as he straddled you. It had been years, but you both remember exactly how to pleasure one another, and when Dean pushed inside you, you screamed with relief and wrapped your legs around his back, moaning words like, ‘more’, and ‘please’, and begging him to fuck you.

 

He did-- and it was so good, you forgot your own name.

 

You came first, all over your chest, and Dean followed moments later, whispering a broken, “Sam…” as he released himself inside you. Then he leaned down and you were kissing deeply and wetly, Dean still buried inside of you.

 

Only then did you realise that you were crying, when Dean licked your cheeks, tasting your tears, “Don’t pull out,” you begged him, your voice rough and hoarse, “Stay…please stay?”

 

Dean nodded silently, understanding as only Dean ever could, your need for this closeness, this intimacy, after sex, and you hold each other, stroking, caressing, kissing….until the passion flares once more, and you went at it all over again until dawn.

 

When the alarm went off two hours later, Dean didn’t even move. You growled unhappily and managed to drag yourself from the bed, cursing all the way to the shower.

 

As the hot water pounded down on you, you recalled why you didn’t drink anymore. . And you decided to call in sick to work.

 

Dean was awake and sitting up in bed when you emerged from the shower, hung over and scowling. He looked up at you and smiled.

 

“What are you grinning at?” you asked in mock annoyance.

 

“You,” he replied, laughing, “You don’t look like you’re gonna make it to work today.”

 

“Nah, thought I’d take the day off, and spend it in bed…with you. Maybe I’ll take off a year and spend it in bed with you–lots of time to make up for.” you grinned stupidly.

 

Dean looked pained at your statement, and it stopped you dead in your tracks. He recovered when he saw how you were reacting, “You seem so happy, Sam…” he said at last, wistfully.

 

You stopped and studied him for a moment, “And you don’t,” you replied, and saw as Dean twitched in response to your observation–you had hit a nerve.

 

“You gonna tell me what’s going on with you?”

 

Dean’s eyes grew unfocused, wistful. Then he shook himself out of his moment and looked down at his hands for a long time, “Let’s go downstairs,” he said at last.

 

You nodded, a sense of dread building in your stomach as you descended the stairs.

 

###

 

“I’m dying, Sammy.” Dean said as you handed him a cup of coffee in the living room.

 

He said it so calmly, so simply–like he just asked you to pass the salt, or was commenting on the weather.

 

“What?” was all you can gasp in response.

 

Of all the things you thought he might be about to say–that was not even on your list.

 

“I’m dying. I’m sick…my heart–you know? I had another heart attack about two months ago. Just like last time… There’s nothing anyone can do for me. Doc says I’ve got a month, maybe two….”

 

You knew you should say something–anything–but you simply cannot. You stared at him with a horrified expression.

 

“I just…I wanted to see you one last time, before…God, I missed you so much, Sammy…never should have let it go this long.” Dean said after a long silence.

 

Dean sounded so calm, so resigned. He gave you a sad smile, and shrugged.

 

Your head felt like it was about to explode from excess information, and emotional overload. You couldn’t even look at Dean, so your eyes searched all over the room, not focusing or stopping on any one thing for too long. This had to be some kind of sick joke….then you forced yourself to look at Dean, and the look in his eyes was confirmation that this it was, in fact, the truth.

 

You crumbled then. Completely fell apart.

 

You didn’t mean too, didn’t want too–you wanted to be strong for Dean-- but you could not…your body slid off the couch and you found yourself on your knees in the middle of your living room, sobbing like a child. You made no noise when you wept, the sobs were so deep and so wrenching, no noise could escape your throat. You grabbed at your stomach and doubled over in physical pain, as if you have just been hit; your whole body shuddered uncontrollably, and you pitched forward at last, falling onto your stomach on the cold floor, writhing in emotional agony.

 

Dean was beside you in a moment, stroking your back and trying to soothe you, and you found it ironic that the one whose life was in peril was the one comforting YOU–but it had always been that way. So much pain for Dean; so much hurting–and most of the time, he just sucked it up and was there for you.

 

Part of you was so very grateful that you had one last night of beautiful lovemaking together–no guilt, no regrets–before this bomb tore your life apart–and part of you was angry that Dean allowed the sex to happen, allowed you to care again, to love and surrender again–only to have all your hopes dashed in this, the cruellest of ways.

 

“Does dad know?” you managed to ask between sobs, already knowing the answer. John’s phone call a few weeks prior suddenly making a lot more sense.

 

“Yeah…I told him about a month ago when I got the results. He came and stayed with me for a week. Then he told me to come and see you.”

 

You smiled up at him through your tears, “I’m so glad that you did.”

 

“Are you?” Dean asks, plainly sceptical.

 

“Yes.” You nodded firmly, “Dean…don’t leave me–not again. Please, stay with me? Stay here until you…”

 

You cannot bring yourself to say the words.

 

“You sure you’re up to that, Sammy?” Dean asked, his voice shaking slightly with emotion, “You wanna see that?”

 

You nodded, tears sliding down your face, “Yeah…real sure.”

 

Dean smiled and nodded his agreement. He didn’t want to die alone, “Thanks…”

 

Then you were crying again, both of you, “Dean…oh God, Dean…” you moaned.

 

He pulled you close in a long embrace, “Don’t cry, Sammy…please don’t cry. I always hated seeing you cry,” he whispered harshly.

 

You held one another, and kissed chastely for a long time. Then the kissing became deeper, more passionate, and you were grasping at Dean desperately, pulling him down on top of you on the couch and shrugging out of your clothes.

 

“Is this okay?” you asked, worried, “Your heart?”

 

Dean merely smiled, “Can’t think of a better way to go!”

 

You froze in horror.

 

Then he laughed at your stricken expression, “It’s fine, Sammy…really.”

 

You made love quickly, Dean’s beautiful body sitting a stride you and riding you to your explosive, emotional completion. You reached up as he rode you, stroking his chest, grazing the nipples until they hardened under your caress. Your hands slid around to his smooth back, feeling the muscles there…at last, your hands came to rest loosely on his hips and he rose and fells on your hardened sex, and you just stared up at him, watching him lose himself in pleasure and lust. 

 

He didn’t look ill. He looked the same as always….and you were suddenly stricken as you found yourself wondering how many more times you would make love like this, how much more time you had left…. the time–or lack of it–was suddenly so all encompassing, you felt overwhelmed by it. 

 

With a cry of sadness, you came, spilling inside of him. Dean arched his back and grabbed his cock, stroking hard and fast, as he threw his head back to the ceiling, groaning as he sprayed you with his hot release.

 

He collapsed on top of you, and you simply cradled him, stroking his back gently, “I love you,” you whispered to him.

 

“I know.” Dean said, kissing your neck, your shoulder, your chest, “I love you too, Sammy. So much. So very much…”

 

####

 

The next few weeks were a blur. You took vacation time, and spent days and nights with Dean, talking and fucking and watching movies, and just holding each other, enjoying one another’s presence after so long apart.

 

“There were times, after I went back to school, that I thought.. I’d go insane without you,” you told him one night as you lay in ed together after sex, “I missed you so much it was like a physical pain…”

 

“I’m sorry, Sammy…I just…I had to let you go. And I knew if we…kept…you know…that you’d never really break free of me. And you wanted a normal life…” Dean explained quietly, looking at you with eyes that plead for forgiveness.

 

You nodded understanding, “I know. But…as I have come to realise, normal is highly overrated!” you laughed, somewhat bitterly, and Dean smiled, “Was there anyone for you? After I left, I mean, did you…”

 

“No,” Dean’s answer was a bit too quick, a bit too abrupt, and he pulled away from you suddenly, turning his back to you in the darkness.

 

You turned to stare at his back; “I’m sorry…” you began.

 

“I slept with a lot of people, Sam, okay? But…they were all just substitutes…I wanted each one of them to be you, and they weren’t so…after a while I just kind of..gave up on all of that. There hasn’t been anyone in…a long, long time.” He sounded so tired, so exhausted emotionally, and you wondered if it was his illness or just his hard life that made him sound so.

 

You said nothing, just ran your fingertips in patterns over his lean back soothingly until he slept.

 

###

 

The children are devastated. They have only just begun to know their uncle, and now you tell them that he is dying. They are inconsolable, and you simply cannot deal with their grief and yours as well, so you call your ex and ask her to come and get the children and take them for a while because you can’t…you just can’t.

 

John and Chelsea sobbed and clung to Dean as they said goodbye, and you couldn’t watch, so you went outside and sat on the porch and cursed yourself for the time that you had wasted.

 

###

You began to see Dean slowing down, losing bits of himself each day. He slept more, ate less. The weakness of his heart took his very essence a little more each day. He could not find the energy to make love anymore, so you simply kissed and caressed one another at night in bed. You didn’t talk about it, but you both knew the end was near. 

 

There wasn’t any pain, which you were grateful for, just a growing exhaustion that seemed to consume Dean everyday more, until the vibrant, outgoing and slightly dangerous older brother that you always knew was a shell of his former self, spending his days on the couch, or in bed, easing in and out of dazed sleep while you held his hand, talked to him gently, telling him about the kids, about work, about what was in the news….he tried to respond, and often he could not, so he would simply smile and nod his head. You would kiss his hair, stroke his face, and tell him how much you loved him.

 

Dean looked at you like he wanted to say things–had so much to say, but could not find the words or the energy to say them, and you nodded and smiled and understood.

 

 

You wondered if your father would come, if he would make it in time. You left four messages on his voicemail telling him about Dean’s worsening condition, and when you did not hear back, you simply gave up.

 

Then, just as you had reconciled yourself to the fact that John Winchester was going to let his sons down once again, there was a knock at your door a day before Dean’s death.

 

“John…” you said blandly.

 

“Hello son, may I come in?” John Winchester asked solemnly.

 

Even after all those years, there was still so much strain in your relationship with your father, but you knew that you had to be civil–for Dean’s sake. You let him in wordlessly, and he managed a contrite smile.

 

Dean was happy to see him, smiling and struggling to sit up as he entered the bedroom. They embraced warmly. And you could not help the twinge of jealousy that ripped through you when you saw them together–they were always so close, so in synche--you were always the one who didn’t fit in.

 

John spent the afternoon in Dean’s bedroom, talking quietly with him. He emerged after a few hours for coffee and then returned to Dean’s bedside, and even though it was your house, you felt strangely out of place–like you were intruding on people you barely know.

 

At last your father emerged and gave you an uneasy smile, “He’s sleeping,” he offered quietly, sitting down at the kitchen table and just staring into space. He looked so sad and tormented and you felt your stomach clinch, realising that John did love Dean very much, even if he had a strange way of showing love.

 

“I’m sorry dad,” you managed to say around the lump in your throat, “I know you two are…close.”

 

John gave you a grave look, and said, “He’s worried about you, Sammy. He’s worried about how you’ll handle it…when he passes…”

 

You looked down at the floor and took a deep breath, “Do you think he’s holding on for me?” you asked, feeling sick.

 

John silently nodded, staring into space sadly.

 

“What should I do?” you asked, tormented.

 

“Tell him its okay to go,” John whispered, “Tell him you’ll be okay.”

 

And you wanted to scream and cry and break things and punch walls because you wouldn’t be okay, not ever again, and you didn’t want him to die! He was so young, and you wasted the last few years in a stupid family feud that seemed so pointless and dumb now, and you wanted that time back, to redo it all, and make things better somehow, and everything….and how could your father ask you to do this?

 

But you nodded dully and forced yourself to go to Dean.

 

You sat by his bedside and took his hand in yours. He stirred, but didn’t open his eyes. You were no even sure if he could hear you, but you spoke aloud anyway.

 

“Dean, I love you, bro, and these past few weeks have been so great. I’m so glad we had this time to, you know, be together and stuff…I’m gonna miss you so much.” You paused and steadied yourself before going on, “But…it’s okay to go, man. I know you have to, and I’ll be okay, I promise. I’ll think about you everyday, but…I’ll be all right. I’m stronger then you think, you know–always have been. So, you go, Dean…just…let go. Don’t fight it, not for me. You’re so tired, Dean… you’ve been tired for…as long as I can remember..Just sleep, okay? Just…sleep. I love you so much…. Goodbye Dean.”

 

You somehow managed to keep yourself from crying as you bent down to kiss his forehead softly, and then you left the room, went outside on the porch, and cried until you have no tears left. At some point, your father joined you, and for the first time since you were a very small child, he embraced you and held you close.

 

Dean Winchester died the next day.

 

You were not with him when he died, which always made you feel sad and a bit cheated. John was with him, not you. You went out to the grocery store to buy food because, really, you haven’t had a decent meal in weeks…and when you got back, John was sitting in the living room alone, staring into space.

 

When you entered, bags of groceries in hand, you stopped dead in your tracks and looked at your father, asking without words.

 

John came out of his dazed trace and looked up at you, nodding slowly, “He’s gone, Sammy…”

 

You dropped the groceries all over the floor.

 

###

 

Dean didn’t want a funeral or a service. 

 

You went with dad to Lawrence to bury him in a simple coffin. 

 

You didn’t remember much about the week of Dean’s death; you were too devastated to do anything but act robotically. At night, you would crawl into your bed and sob until you fell asleep. In the morning, you would drag yourself from your sleep and walk numbly through the day.

 

When they lowered the coffin into the ground, you fell to your knees and stared down at the box that contained the remains of Dean Winchester–and you knew that you had never felt so alone as you did at that moment.

 

 

###

 

You were laying in your bed in the motel room–a room like so many you have stayed in throughout your life as a hunter–and for the first time in over a month, you were gloriously happy because Dean was there and he was naked and pressed against you, making gentle love to you, and staring into your eyes with his green orbs and you were gripping his shoulders and pulling him down for a wet kiss, moaning in pleasure.

 

But something was wrong. This couldn’t be happening, not really, because Dean…was dead.

 

Your face fell as you realised something, “I’m dreaming….” You whispered sadly, and Dean just smiled that amazing smile of his and nodded gently.

 

“College boy gets it in one…” he whispered, “And you have to wake up soon.”

 

Tears filled your eyes and you shook your head vehemently, “No! Don’t…don’t leave me, Dean…please? I miss you so much. It hurts so much…”

 

Dean looked crest fallen at your grief, “I know,” he whispered painfully, “I’m so sorry, but…you have to let me go, Sammy. You just have to….”

 

“I don’t know how!” you sobbed, reaching out to him, “I just got you back and you left me!”

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered, his eyes filled with sorrow.

 

Please…just…make love to me? Even if it’s not real, just…touch me, Dean…please? One last time?” you found yourself begging.

 

Dean smiled softly and allowed himself to be drawn into your touch. Then he was touching you–fingers caressing your cheek, your lips, your neck…his mouth wet and warm against your skin. And then you were arching up against him, and you were both naked and it was glorious… and you didn’t care if it was only a dream, because it FELT real…it FELT like Dean….and it was sad and sweet and complicated–just like him.

 

“I love you, Sammy,” he groaned, pressing inside you, stretching you.

 

You were both crying as you make love slowly, tenderly.

 

He held you close as he moved in you, and you sobbed against his chest, “Take me with you,” you begged softly, feeling so very lonely without him.

 

“I can’t do that, Sammy….” He said regretfully, and you clutched at his shoulders and climaxed against his taut belly, and it felt so good, and yet so painful. You were vaguely aware of his climax, his warmth spreading within you… and then he was fading away, and you were desperately reaching for him, and his smile was sad…

 

“Please don’t leave me…” you whined, holding him close, feeling him, and smelling him.

 

But Dean was slipping away.

 

“I have to go now,” he whispered, “Take care of dad…”

 

You awakened, and you were alone in your bed, but you could still feel a trace of Dean in the room, and your struggled to hold onto it…but it faded away. 

 

You laid in bed, and cried

 

 

###

 

You did as Dean asked. You took care of your father--and he took care of you. He came to stay with you after Dean was buried and well, he never really left again.

 

You and dad reached a truce of sorts…when he wanted to forget, needed to forget he has to go to a bar–you simply would not expose your children–or yourself–to his drinking. You told him this one morning after a particularly bad night when you had to help him to bed, and he spent most of the night throwing up and crying out for Dean and Mary.

 

The next morning, you sat at the kitchen table across from him, and laid down the law, “I don’t EVER want a repeat of last night in this house,” you tell him sternly, sounding very much like him, “I won’t expose my children to that–hell, I won’t expose myself to that any longer. I will throw you out and never speak to you again–do you understand me, dad?”

 

John Winchester just sat and stared down at his folded hands on the table and nodded, and for once, you won an argument with your father.

 

For all his failings as a father, and as a human being, no one could ever say that John Winchester was anything but a devoted and wonderful grandfather. Your children adored him, and he regaled them with stories about his ‘adventures’–though he changed them and made them more acceptable. You would never have allowed him to tell his grand kids the truth, so instead, John’s stories became mystical fairy tales–where demons became evil queens and witches, and werewolves became elves or mermaids. When you listened to some of the stories, you recognised enough of the details to know the true story, and would smile ruefully at the memories–but to the children, they were merely fantasies, and they would listen for hours with rapt attention. And you smiled ruefully when you realised that it took Dean’s death to make you a family again–the one thing Dean had wanted all along.

 

You came home from work one night, and John was sitting in the kitchen. He looked as if he had been crying, and was looking at old photos of Dean and you and Mary. He straightened up as you entered, looking up at you fondly.

 

“Hey dad,” you mumbled, exhausted, as you sort through the mail. 

 

John Winchester smiled and nodded his head towards the staircase, “The kids are in bed. I gave them a bath. Chelsea demanded that I leave her light on–she’s convinced there’s something under her bed that wants to eat her.”

 

You looked up at father, and smiled brightly, “Well, dad–that’s an improvement! You just left on her light–no giving her a forty-five, huh? I’m proud of you!”

 

Your father laughed sarcastically and playfully shoved you, and you both dissolved into laughter.

 

Your smiles faded, and dad dropped his voice low, “I joined AA, Sammy…” he said in a confidential tone, “I’m going to stop. I promise–have already, actually. Haven’t had a drink in four days.”

 

You stared at your father as if he were a stranger. Never, in your lifetime, did you think you would ever hear those words come out of his mouth, and you were too stunned to say anything. 

 

All you could do was embrace him tightly against your chest, while he laughed lightly and scolded you, “Didn’t Dean used to say, ‘no chick flick moments’?”

 

You released your tight grip and smiled down at your father, “He would have been thirty-five tomorrow,” you whispered, painfully, just barely containing your tears.

 

John Winchester nodded tightly, his eyes soft with sympathy, “I know. I thought…maybe you could stay home tomorrow? We could do something together?”

 

“I was going to drive to Lawrence and visit him.” you said softly.

 

John shook his head, and you knew what he was going to say before he even said it, “I don’t think he’d want that.”

 

You thought about it, and had to agree. You nodded, “So, what should we do instead?”

 

“I have no idea…hustle pool and hit on cheap women?” John asked and you both just have to laugh.

 

Maybe, just maybe, you can get through this.

 

###

 

You visited Lawrence again only once–to bury your father beside his wife and oldest son in the family plot. 

 

John Winchester died suddenly from heart failure at the age of sixty-seven. 

 

You found him in his bed one Saturday morning when he failed to rise with the sun as he always had. It was sad, but John had always entered and exited your life suddenly–here one moment and gone the next–so it was somehow fitting that he should leave you so unexpectedly and suddenly.

 

You sat beside the bed, holding his lifeless hand for a long time. You spoke quietly to him, told him how grateful you were that you had both had the last years together, and that you loved him. Then you told him to find Mary and Dean and to be happy and at peace at last. You kissed his forehead reverently, and went downstairs to tell your children that grandpa was gone.

 

After dad’s simple funeral, you went over to Dean’s grave, and your children gave you space and time alone.

 

“Hey buddy,” you whispered, looking down at the ground that held the body of your beloved, “Sorry I haven’t come before…but…I know you’re not really here, so it seemed stupid…. I’ve felt you–your presence–so many times over the years. I know you were looking out for me, like always. I love you, Dean.”

 

You knelt beside the limestone, and traced Dean’s name with your fingers lovingly, “I still miss you so much…” you whispered harshly, “I guess dad’s with you by now, and I’m sure he’ll tell you, but…the last few years have been…real good, Dean. Real good. Dad and I…we got to be really close. And he lived with me, and he was such a great grandfather, Dean. The kids just adored him…. I wish…I wish you could have seen him with them. Maybe you did, I don’t know…but we had long talks. We forgave each other, you know? And we talked about you a lot…dad missed you so much, Dean. He loved you so much, and when you died, he….felt guilty because he thought you never knew how much he loved you. But he did–so much. And I loved you, Dean. I still love you….”

 

You didn’t cry, which you found odd, but you simply pressed your lips to the cold stone, and got up, brushing the dirt from your pants and walking away without looking back.

 

###

You lived another twenty-five years. 

 

You children married happily and had children of their own. You had a few lovers, but no true love. And that was fine by you. You sold the house and moved to a small townhouse. You had friends that you visited, and things that you did. Your grandchildren were a joy. Leanne even became a good friend again. You did a great deal of charity work, and raised money for the Heart Foundation in Dean’s memory.

 

You died when you are only sixty, and your children were devastated, but you were ready to go–so many years without Dean…it got harder and harder towards the end to be a part from him. 

 

No one ever knew–well, at least you never told anyone–about your relationship with Dean. You suspect that dad knew, but it wasn’t the kind of thing he would ever ask you. You suspect your daughter knew, but she always skirted the issue…. At night, you would lie in bed, alone, and half-hope that you would not wake up in the morning–and one morning, that is exactly what happened.

 

At first, you thought you were dreaming when you saw the bright light and began to feel drawn towards it. But then you realise what this is–what has happened. 

 

You spared a thought of regret for your children and grandchildren, knowing that your death will cause them pain, but the overwhelming feeling is relief and hope as you let go of your life and embrace this unknown future….

 

The blinding light faded slightly and a figure moved towards you.

 

It was Dean. 

 

He was smiling and holding a hand out to you. He looked younger and more carefree then he did the entire last few years of his life, and you smiled happily as he chuckled, “Bitch…” he said out of the side of his mouth.

 

“Are you allowed to curse in Heaven?” you gasped, looking around, expecting an angel to appear and scold Dean.

 

Dean laughed even harder, “This isn’t Heaven, Sammy…I told you before, there’s no such thing.”

 

You stared at him, confused, “Then…where am I?”

 

“You’re here–and you’re with me. Isn’t that enough?” he smirked cockily, “Do we really need angels with harps on clouds?”

 

You laughed and shook your head, “Guess not,”

 

And then… 

 

“Mom? Dad?” you asked in quick succession.

 

Dean merely nodded and bowed his head, then looked up at you smiling brightly, “They’re here…you’ll see them soon.”

 

You gasped with relief and delight. 

 

“Oh Dean,” you whimpered, feeling overwhelmed, “I’m so glad it’s you to meet me. I wanted it to be you…”

 

He smiled, “Who else would it be?” he asked knowingly.

 

He walked towards you, and it was all very surreal, but you felt…home. 

 

You looked past him, over his shoulder–and you saw the house in Lawrence….the one that burned to the ground so many years ago. It made perfect sense that, in the end that would be your version of Heaven–and Dean’s as well. It was the only home you both ever really knew together–and now you would be there, with him, forever.

 

You swallowed thickly, past the lump in your throat, “Is all this real?” you asked, bewildered.

 

Dean smiled, “Oh, yeah…its all real, Sammy. It’s our home. Come…come with me…”

 

He stopped a few yards from you, and simply waited, holding an outstretched hand in your direction.

 

With a light heart, you walked towards him.

 

End~


End file.
